


If You Can't Stand The Heat

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-27 14:54:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5053069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whirl and Fortress Maximus Do The Lost Light. (Wherein the crew of the Lost Light has too much of a good time, leaving Whirl and a confused Fortress Maximus to save them.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shibara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shibara/gifts).



Whirl and Fortress Maximus Do The Lost Light. (Wherein the crew of the Lost Light has too much of a good time, leaving Whirl and a confused Fortress Maximus to save them.)

**Title:** If You Can’t Stand The Heat  
 **Warnings:** A heat virus is loose on the _Lost Light_ , and thus, here there be heavily implied acts of sexual nature. Don’t read if that’s going to scandalize you.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW, set in the middle of Season 1 of MTMTE.   
**Characters:** Fortress Maximus, Whirl, Tailgate, Cyclonus, Trailbreaker, Pipes, Ultra Magnus, Chromedome, Rewind, Siren, Cosmos, Powerglide, Blaster, Rung, Skids, Perceptor.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** I blame Shibara.

**[* * * * *]**   
**Part One**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Fortress Maximus had been dutifully putting in requests to see Rung for weeks. There wasn’t much else he could do, what with being locked in the brig, but he did what he could. Of all the confusion that’d come out of what had happened, one thing he knew for certain was that he owed Rung an apology. He didn’t know what exactly he’d say, but that didn’t change the fact that he should say it. So he put in the requests. 

Just as dutifully, Ultra Magnus denied his requests. Fort Max followed the proper procedures, but the request of an incarcerated, dangerous combatant to see the noncombatant he’d harmed had to be approved by a superior officer and jury of three involved peers. The vote hadn’t been kept anonymous. Ultra Magnus and Ratchet had both voted approval under strict stipulations; Whirl and Rodimus had both voted denial with a few expletives attached. Fortress Maximus gritted his teeth on an angry tirade against the denials, swallowed his well-deserved portion of humble pie, and put in another request.

After weeks of denial, the last person he expected to come skidding into the brig shouting, “Request granted, now get your skidplate moving!” was Whirl.

“What the…” He straightened on the berth and stared.

The shorter Autobot rebounded off the empty duty station -- no guard had shown up this shift, oddly -- careened down the aisle, and flung a pair of statis cuffs through the cell bars. “Here! Take these, and be prepared to use them!” He zipped back up the aisle, faceless head bent over the station console, and pincers went to work typing in the passcodes. “Blah dee blah blah. Yeah, yeah, authorization code this, verify that, I should have just started shooting.” He glanced up and did a double-take. “No, not on **you**! Frag, now I have to -- “ A pincer slapped down on the console, and Whirl bustled around the station as the bars powered down. “Yo, U.M.!” he called back toward the console’s comm. mike. “I need your cuff code!”

Fort Max just held his cuffed wrists out and blinked, wondering when he’d gone mad. “Why give me cuffs if you didn’t want me to use them?” He’d thought it was just part of Whirl’s endless refusal to comply with regulations that the cuffs had been flung into the cell instead of put on him. Apparently not, if the frustrated huff was anything to go by. Whirl raised the bars and nabbed him by the cuffs to pull him out. Well, not that anybody Whirl’s size could actually pull him around, but Fort Max knew prison procedures inside-out and backward. Prisoner compliance was the only thing that garnered leniency on behavioral reports that, in turn, affected parole or requests. He’d comply with Whirl pulling him around until he could pound the annoying glitch into tinfoil.

The Decepticons in the cells around him stared, boredom on their faces. Whirl’s behavior was weird but nothing new for, well, Whirl. They were used to it.

The duty station console bleeped as Whirl hauled him over to it. _*”Why are you making that inquiry of me?”*_ Ultra Magnus sounded strangely harried to Fort Max’s experienced audios. 

“Because Roddy gave me your cuffs, and then dumbaft here put them on instead of holding onto them like he was supposed to.” How could one optic glare so effectively? Fortress Maximus gazed back, unimpressed by Whirl’s ire. 

_*”Whirl. You’re not making any sense.”*_

“He claims my request has been passed,” Fort Max said, deciding to cut off whatever blathering the rotary mech would spout next. This was sounding more and more like a prank instead of anything official, and he wasn’t about to let the idiot get him in trouble by proxy. “He had the codes to open the cell, but he’s objecting to me being cuffed. What’s going on, Ultra Magnus?”

There was a long pause, and Whirl glared up at him. If this got the bastard into trouble, Fort Max was going to feel _very_ smug. 

_*”…Whirl.”*_ Ultra Magnus was a mech of few words, but he used those words effectively. He packed castigation and a demand for explanation into one word.

“I changed my vote, alright?” Whirl snapped, pincers still clamped on the cuffs. “I got Roddy to change his, too, so we’re all agreed that Fort DumbMax here can go visit the guy who’s head he blew off, and I need the slagging cuff codes!”

_*”Rodimus hasn’t spoken to me about -- “*_

“Then go ask him!”

The harried note in the Executive Officer’s voice became more pronounced. _*”That is not possible at this time. If I might ask, what did you say to convince him to change his mind? He seemed rather set on his vote upon the last request.”_

“Yeah, I bet it’s not possible,” Whirl muttered. “I told him it was a good **fragging** reason. He agreed.” His tone turned snide. “You gonna tell me you disagree?”

The pause this time was odd. Then again, Whirl’s bizarrely pointed swearing at the ship’s Executive Officer was odd as well. Fortress Maximus was staring at the rotary mech as if he’d grown a sense of responsibility. Not only had Whirl outright sworn at Ultra Magnus, he’s actually gone out of his way to emphasize the word. What was going on here?

_*”I…see. Yes. I can see the logic in that reason.”*_ There was a strange sound in the background of the transmission. Fort Max’s frown transferred to the console. That sounded like an engine revving. And what reason were they talking about?! _*”Bring Fortress Maximus to me immediately.”*_ There was a short pause, and another deep grumble of overworked engines. _*”Leave the cuffs on. I will take them off myself.”*_

“Yeah, I just bet you will,” Whirl muttered as the transmission cut. “Rust my life. Didn’t need any more complications.” After sucking in a huge in-vent as if to calm himself, he blew it out in a supremely rude sound. “Fraggit! You!” He pointed a pincer up at Fort Max aggressively. Considering the ex-Wrecker’s gangly build compared to the prison warden’s, it was like watching a construct made of toothpicks face off with a brick. “You come with me, and no funny business! We’ve got to get from here,” he pointed at the floor at their feet, “to nerd-bot’s lab,” he pointed to the left and downward, “and then all the way up to the bridge.” The pincer swung upward and to the right. “At least, I think that’s where Roddy was last.” That single-optic head cocked to the side. “Huh. He’s not answering comm.-calls. This’s gonna be…huh. Well, whatever. We’ll deal with finding him when we get around to it.”

Typical Wrecker thinking. Planning ahead was for lesser mechs, in their logic. Fortress Maximus continued to be completely unimpressed by Whirl’s gesticulations and yammering. “Ultra Magnus did just tell you to bring me,” he sneered the words, because despite Whirl being far tougher than his build appeared, they both knew the warden was _letting_ himself be pulled toward the door, “to him. We should be reporting directly to him, not detouring to visit…” His optics flickered as he tried to narrow down exactly who qualified as a nerd in Whirl’s very large book of inane appendages to mechs’ proper designations. 

“Perceptor,” the rotary mech said curtly, still determinedly towing the bigger Autobot toward the door. “We need to grab Perceptor. Rodimus’ orders,” he snidely countered Fort Max’s sneer. “The captain of a ship is ranked higher than X.O., last I checked. We need to bring Perceptor to the walking sharp object,” the warden thought that meant Drift, “pry Roddy off his aft,” wait, off his own aft or off of Drift’s aft? Whirl didn’t elaborate as he continued, “bring Roddy to Ultra Fragnus, and get the slagging cuffs unlocked before they get too busy so we can actually **do** something.”

That had been entirely too confusing. Busy doing what? “What?” Not that he wanted to feed Whirl’s lunacy, but seriously. What?

Whirl smacked the door open, and Trailbreaker and Pipes fell through to land on the floor in a tangled, writhing bundle of limbs stuck in entirely too private areas for a public setting. “Is there a brig cell free?” Trailbreaker gasped from the bottom, middle, and at least one foot on top. 

“Sure,” Whirl said blandly, not ruffled in the slightest. “Since, y’know, **he’s** out, now.” He jerked his head at Fortress Maximus, who was trying not to gape at the pornographic display, and Pipes glanced up. 

And screamed.

“Hey -- oof! Ow.” Trailbreaker flopped back to the floor as Pipes disappeared out the door. “Well, so much for that.”

Fort Max stared at the empty doorway. “Did I..?”

“Shoot him, up close and personal? Yep.” Whirl abandoned his handcuffed prisoner in favor of hauling Trailbreaker upright and briskly prodding him. “What’re your fuel levels?”

The warden’s staring transferred to the two smaller Autobots as Trailbreaker _leaned_ into Whirl, purring his motor. “Not low enough to not be still interested in using that brig cell,” the black truck leered suggestively. His hands wandered down toward slender hips Fort Max could have done without noticing. Augh, Primus, why was anyone looking at Whirl’s hips?!

That ‘fragging’ reason Whirl had given Rodimus and Ultra Magnus was starting to take on an ominously literal meaning.

“Has the whole ship gone mad?” the cuffed mech asked loudly, taking a step back.

“Got it in one,” Whirl snapped back. “You! Hands off the goods, and drink this.” He popped his cockpit and took out a small cube of energon, shoving it into Trailbreaker’s grabby hands. “Ratchet’s orders. Come **on** ,” that was addressed at Fort Max, “let’s get out of here before he’s done!” 

The bigger mech let himself be led hurriedly past Trailbreaker, who seemed preoccupied chugging the cube. Preoccupied, that was, until he evidently spotted opportunity and grabbed it with his free hand. 

“Yipe!”

Whirl paused in the hallway after the door closed to tilt his head and give Fortress Maximus a quizzical look. “Did you really just…?”

“He **pinched** my **aft** ,” the warden defended himself, trying not to show exactly how flustered he suddenly was. He was allowed to be startled by that! “What is going on here?!”

The demand was met with a resigned shrug. “Walk and talk, come on.” The pull on the cuffs was lackluster, and Whirl dropped his hold on the cuffs to trot ahead of the larger Autobot. His head swung from side to side. He looked like a reconnaissance scout in unknown territory. Which was ridiculous, because Whirl had been onboard this ship longer than Fortress Maximus had. “So, you know all the fluffy feel-good stuff Drift spouts? Peace, love, getting along with other races, all that slag. Well, yeah, could’a called this one, but that came around to bite us.” They came to an intersection, and the ex-Wrecker crept up the wall like the intersecting corridor was full of rabid sparkeaters waiting to tear him apart. Bemused, Fort Max just stood there with his cuffed hands in front of himself, watching. Whirl ducked out to quickly check both ways before waving them onward. “Some kind of virus. Got into the ship’s comm. suite, and suddenly everyone’s interface drives are overclocked. Nobody can think straight, nobody can **walk** straight.” He chuckled cruelly, apparently at some perverse memory. “I’ve seen things in the last two days that’ll get me free drinks for years in any bar I care to walk in to.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” the warden said, unconsciously lowering his voice to match Whirl’s low tone. “Ratchet could counter any virus. He’s famous for his ability to manufacture cures for the impossible.” After watching Ratchet synthesize a cure for the Red Rust from a tiny vial of countervirus while the medic’s optics bled rust and his hands fell apart, Fortress Maximus sort of believed every rumor about the doctor’s miraculous abilities. “If nothing else, just shutting down the communication suite -- “

“In order: he’s fragged up, too, and it was too late by the time anybody figured out how everyone got infected.” Whirl’s optic had tremendous emotional expression range. It gave him the impression of grimacing as the rotary mech crept up on another intersection. “Look, you **aren’t** my first choice. Not even in the top ten. Frag, I’d have taken the Decepticon-wannabe over you. Buuuuuut,” he peered around the corner, “I’ve been pulling emergency medical duty for a day and half. Ratchet’s just barely got it together enough to give me orders about, y’know, savin’ lives.” He popped his cockpit again and reached in to take out two small, potent energon cubes. Fort Max started to step forward, eyeing them and wondering what was around the corner, but Whirl tick-tocked his free pincer at the cuffed mech. “Don’t. You don’t want to see these two like this.” He glanced around the corner and took out another cube. “Whoa. Three.” 

That just increased curiosity all around, but the warden was still playing a good prisoner. He stopped obediently. Whirl put the cubes on the floor and scooted them around the corner with his foot. “Fuel up!”

“Come join us!”

“No!” Whirl took another peek and stiffened in alarm right before whipping around and sprinting past Fortress Maximus, hauling the big Autobot after him by the cuffs. “Run for it!” 

His sense of urgency was real enough. The warden humored him for two more hallways. “Who was that?” he asked when they finally slowed back down to Whirl’s long-legged lope. “I don’t know many mechs by their voices alone on this ship.”

Whirl looked back. “You sure you want to know?”

Fortress Maximus scowled. “Why would I ask otherwise?”

“It was Steeljaw and Sunstreaker.” The ex-Wrecker hesitated oddly. “And Bob.”

The gold, vain frontliner and, er, Blaster’s technimal Cassette? Awkward physical compatibility at best. The last mech’s name, however, he didn’t recognize. “Who?”

“Uh…find out later. Mission first.” Suddenly all business, Whirl trotted faster. Fortress Maximus frowned and strode after him. “So, right, where was I…oh. Okay, so everyone’s so busy ‘facing each other into the floors and walls that they’re not remembering to refuel. I’ve been molested so many times trying to save these ungrateful smelt-waste gearsticks’ lives,” the smaller Autobot muttered as he trotted along. “I can’t keep doing this. You’re gonna help me put a stop to it.”

The warden squinted suspiciously at Whirl. This sounded far too insane to be real life. An interfacing virus? Whirl forcibly fueling everyone? Whirl trying to save the day?

They came up on another intersection. Whirl didn’t slow this time. He just hopped over the entwined pair snogging in the middle, stopping just long enough to nudge a couple of cubes into otherwise-occupied hands. Fortress Maximus uncomfortably looked away as Rewind and Chromedome immediately began feeding each other, still cooing and affectionately staring visor-to-visor. The hardline links were a bit hard to miss since Chromedome was stroking Rewind’s cables with his long injector-needles and Rewind was actually wrapped in Chromedome’s main cable. 

One or the other of them managed to free a hand to stroke Fort Max’s ankle as he carefully stepped over them. His stride hitched for just a second.

“They’re probably the least pushy couple onboard,” Whirl grumped, still loping forward. “Beware of threesome or moresomes. They’re grabby, and they’ve got far too many hands to get you with.”

…right. Probably good advice. 

Good advice from Whirl. The world _had_ gone mad. 

“Two questions,” Fort Max grunted, lengthening his stride to catch up. “One, why me? And two, what am I supposed to help you with?”

“Two answers,” the ex-Wrecker snarked back. “One, duh. You’re the one who’s supposed to be the prison warden. What’s the first thing disabled after weapons’ systems when a mech’s thrown into a cell?”

Ah. No wonder the Decepticons in the brig had been bored instead of frenzied. “Interface drive.”

“Whole piece of hardware gets shut off,” Whirl agreed. “You’re just as infected as everyone else, but the virus is dormant.”

“But why aren’t **you** \-- “

“ **Not** that it’s any of your business,” the ex-Wrecker’s voice sizzled acid bite, “but I never bothered to get my interface drive switched back on after Garrus-1.”

It was such a non-surprise that Whirl had been incarcerated on Garrus-1 that Fort Max only snorted contempt. Then the rest of the statement caught up with him, and the warden stopped short. “You **what**? That’s insane!” Short term, deactivating an interface drive prevented a shipload of prisoner problems. On a longer-term scale for longer sentences, there were steps that had to be taken to prevent psychological damage. Interface drives weren’t just for sex. They were physical pressure valves and social interaction on an intimate level that every Cybertronian needed, even the only release a mech got was self-service. It was still an integral part of a living being that couldn’t just be _cut out_. Choosing not to use an active array was one thing, but to leave it deactivated for _millions of years_?!

Of all the things to leap to mind, the first thing out of the warden’s mouth was, “Does Rung know?”

The ex-Wrecker reached back and yanked on the cuffs impatiently. “Not your business.”

“This explains so slagging much about you.” He reluctantly started walking again. So much. No wonder the ex-Wrecker was a walking nutjob.

“Still not your business.” Whirl shook his head and started jogging. “It’s not like I miss it, anyway. You want insane? You’ll see insane, trust me.” He laughed bitterly. “Never seen mechs go so crazy as they do when they’re desperate for a frag. It’s killing them, now, and they’re still so busy gettin’ it on that they can’t care. So you’re gonna help me by holding down mechs while I figure out how to shut off their hardware, too.”

That almost made sense. Something was definitely wrong. “You don’t know how to do it?”

“Not a clue.” Whirl shrugged and skittered across an intersection quickly. Fortress Maximus looked down the hallway and wished he hadn’t. That looked like a Minibot pileup on top of someone who seemed _very_ happy. The sounds kind of echoed down the corridor, but yeah. That sounded happy. “Thing is, I lost Ratchet about a joor ago, and Ambulon was ordering First Aid, Swerve, and Brainstorm around before I got the slag out of there.”

“But -- “

“Not those kind of orders. **Those** kind of orders. I had to short out some restraints of my own to get loose.” The ex-Wrecker’s stabilizers shivered. “Mech’s got organizational skills comin’ out his ports, and now he’s got other things, too.” Another shiver, and then Whirl visibly dismissed the memory. “See, I can knock out mechs left and right, but whenever I think I’m safe, somebody finds me and starts feeling me up. They’ve got numbers on their side. Nobody’s around to repair anybody I crack upside the head too hard. **And** I’m still trying to keep everybody fueled up, which is the most thankless job I’ve ever had. That includes the time -- “

“I’ll take your word for it,” Fort Max interrupted rudely, too shaken up to care much about the obnoxious twit’s ramblings. The information he was pulling from Whirl’s scrambled mess of a debriefing was disturbing, to say the least. “You want me to hold down mechs so you can shut down their interface drives.”

“And guard my back, and deliver cubes, and oh shove Primus in the Pit, you are the **randiest** one of the bunch!” Whirl came to a dead stop, glaring down the hall at…really?

There was a tiny Minibot was kneeling in the middle of the corridor. Fort Max stopped behind his, er, escort and blinked. The little ‘bot was white and blue and curvy in places the warden was used to seeing sharp edges and blocky altmode kibble. It was an usual sight, maybe even an exotic one. The mech was, dare he say it, rather adorable. Perhaps especially because of the way he was on his knees, hands demurely folded together on those luxuriously rounded thighs. They just didn’t make models with class like that anymore.

He was in a vulnerable, submissive position only enhanced by the way he blinked that wide blue visor up at the two Autobots looming over him. “Who, me?”

“Yes, you!” Whirl edged backward, putting Fortress Maximus between him and the plushly curved Minibot. “You can’t fool me!” His voice dropped to a resentful mutter. “More than once, anyway.”

A small engine hummed softly, and the kneeling Autobot looked all the way up at Fort Max. “Oh. Hello. Have I met you?”

“Only in passing,” the warden answered roughly, taking a cautious step forward. As much as he knew better than to believe appearances, this little mech was far too harmlessly cute to inspire fear in him. For pity’s sake, Fortress Maximus could likely pick him up and hold him in his cupped hands. It was kind of tempting, honestly. He sort of wanted to pick the innocent Minibot up, cuddle him, and protect him against the rest of the clearly insane ship’s crew. There was just something about the way that visor sparkled and…and the way those smooth thighs were parting, and those teensy hands were sliding down to dip into gaps and do obscene things to the wires and cables lewdly exposed underneath… 

”I’m -- uh. I’m Fortress Maximus. You’re Tailgate, correct?” he finished somewhat weaker than he’d started.

Whirl poked him in the tread. “Keep walking!”

“Yes,” Tailgate said breathily, fingers twisting deftly as he rocked into his own hands. “Oh, yes. I’m Tailgate, and you’re just the right size for what I’m thinking a name like Fortress Maximus implies about a mech. Come here and show me what you’re the maximum of.” He rose up on his knees, hands dragging up the inside of his thighs to come up and fondle his chest. “I’ll show you what **my** name means.”

One of Fort Max’s optics twitched wider than the other. _What._

“Ack!” 

The warden stumbled forward and turned, suddenly shoved from behind. Whirl flailed again, but Cyclonus had him well and truly pinned.

In a hug. “Whirl,” the Decepticon rasped, biting at the rotary mech’s antenna hard enough to scrape peels of metal off. “Hate sex appeals to me. If I happen to kill you, it would be a better fate than what I originally planned for you.”

Whirl’s expressive optic conveyed horror deeper than mere words could say. “Do. Not. **Want!** ”

“Do not care,” Cyclonus snarled back, claws scraping across his enemy’s body to violate sensitive areas in most unwelcome ways. 

Fort Max jumped, startled by an unwelcome touch on his own body. Slightly wild-opticked, he looked down to see Tailgate all but plastered against his leg, molesting as best he could considering their height difference. The Minibot looked ready to start climbing him, however. “Ah. Tailgate? I would prefer that you not…your attentions are flattering but not something I’m interested in.”

“Reason doesn’t work with a virus!” Whirl barked, struggling with all four limbs and not getting anywhere. His rotary assemblies whirred at top speed, creating enough of a windstorm to send Cyclonus staggering back against the wall for balance. Tailgate might have been in trouble if he hadn’t been vacuum-sealed to Fortress Maximus’ lower leg. “Leggo! Do not want! Help! Rape!...fraggin’ Primus, I can’t believe I have to say this slag…”

“That’s a -- **no!** Please don’t touch that!” Fort Max hesitated warily before bending down and plucking Tailgate from his leg with his cuffed hands. It was the obvious solution. The Minibot let go easily, which should have been a warning sign. 

“Off! Off off off off ack no off! Not the cockpit! Claws off the glass!” Screeching, scratchy noises indicated that Cyclonus was not listening to Whirl’s protests at all.

The warden had his own problems to deal with. Suddenly, where he’d had a cute tiny harmless Miniobot, he now had a ball of richly, almost erotically curved Autobot absolutely wrapped around his hands, writhing through his palms like he’d been greased. Those sleek curves gave no purchase for a good grip. The mech’s whole frame shimmied as he rubbed and wriggled, burring that small engine in rampant arousal. Tiny white hands manipulated one of Fort Max’s much larger fingers into a hot, electricity-spitting gap that just _dripped_ charge. Tailgate revved harder and worked that finger in and out, visor bright as he reveled in the sensation. 

“Whirl!” Well, that was a thoroughly undignified bleat for help. 

But what else was he supposed to do? Throw the Minibot down? Whirl had already said the medics were indisposed. Tailgate clearly wasn’t in control of his own actions. Anything more than self-defense would get put down on his record and count toward his brig sentence. Fortress Maximus couldn’t do more than try to push the determined little mech away, but with his hands cuffed like this, it was stupidly ineffectual. It also made Tailgate cry out loudly and arch in ways that would usually grab the intense interest of a certain piece of every mech’s anatomy. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, Tailgate’s target didn’t currently have that piece activated.

Right, no more pushing. 

“Hold **gah!** ” Whirl yelped. “Hold on. If this doesn’t work, I’m going to have no leverage whatsoever, so I hope you’re prepared for how loud I can shriek in disgust.” There were clanks and grunts, and out of nowhere a kicking mass of blue and purple tumbled across the floor. “Cyc! Look at the pretty Minibot! Hot ‘bot alert! Look at him! He’s ready to go and everything!”

Fort Max felt like a dirty slagger for helpfully holding out his double handful of Tailgate, but it did catch the deep red pits of Cyclonus’ optics. The snarling purple warrior looked up like a hunter catching the scent of willing prey. It probably helped that Tailgate’s present position was showing off a quite delectable tiny aft that bobbed and weaved as the warden kept trying to free his finger. Cyclonus’ attention visibly fixated on the Minibot. Twin flares of red light reflected off that shiny white aft.

“Here, have him!” the warden urged, voice high-pitched and funny as his captured fingertip brushed against something he was going to have trouble forgetting. 

“Yesssss,” Cyclonus growled. “Tailgate.”

Miracle of miracles, the lusty little Autobot actually paused and looked up. He reset his visor, and Fortress Maximus was surprised when the giddy brightness dimmed to a downright sultry glow. “Cyclonus.” Letting go with one hand, the small mech leaned toward his habitation suitemate and made a _come hither_ curl with his fingers. “Come here, Cyclonus.”

Whirl surged up from the floor, grabbed Tailgate in one pincer and Cyclonus’ remaining helm-horn with the other, and shoved them together. “Psycho Decepticony glitch, meet tiny ancient guy. Tiny ancient guy, frag him until he’s sane again. I am holding this over your head **forever** ,” he informed his assailant. 

Cyclonus had dismissed him from his world the moment a better interface came into it, it seemed. Whirl was ignored in favor of a far more enthusiastic playmate. Tailgate got thrown down to the floor and explored with wide palms and sharp claws.

Right up until Tailgate planted his feet against the Decepticon’s midriff and flipped him up over his head to land with a terrible clatter. Quick as Blurr, the randy Minibot rolled upright and pounced the larger mech. There was a brief struggle, but it seemed Tailgate could hold his own at hand-to-hand, at least when his opponent was completely distracted by what exactly those hands were holding. After a flurry of moves and counter-moves, they just moved together.

Fort Max gaped, backing away. It wasn’t so much that Tailgate was topping a notorious fighter. It was just the cumulative strangeness kicking him in the cortex all at once.

“See why I wanted the cuffs free?” Whirl spat, pulling at the warden’s arm as he slid down the wall past the enthusiastic interface happening right then and there. Foreplay was a thing of the past. “Come on, before they decide we should join them.”

Red optics and a blue visor flared and looked up.

Fortress Maximus and Whirl exchanged a panicked look and ran for it. 

 

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Pt. 2

**Title:** If You Can’t Stand The Heat  
**Warnings:** A heat virus is loose on the _Lost Light_ , and thus, here there be heavily implied acts of sexual nature. Don’t read if that’s going to scandalize you.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** IDW, set in the middle of Season 1 of MTMTE.  
**Characters:** Fortress Maximus, Whirl, Tailgate, Cyclonus, Trailbreaker, Pipes, Ultra Magnus, Chromedome, Rewind, Siren, Cosmos, Powerglide, Blaster, Rung, Skids, Perceptor.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** I blame Shibara.

**[* * * * *]**  
**Part Two**  
**[* * * * *]**

There were many things Fortress Maximus wasn’t proud of in his long life. There’d been a lot of poor decisions he didn’t like talking about. Things had happened. He didn’t like to talk about them, either. Holding Rung hostage had only been the latest in a series of lousy life choices.

Holding Whirl hostage didn’t count among those bad choices. The only thing that Fort Max regretted about beating Whirl up was that he hadn’t finished the job.

He felt that regret most acutely right now, stomping along in the rotary mech’s wake with his wrists cuffed and hands held out in front of himself like they were contaminated. He could still feel the tingle of excess charge on two of his fingertips. His optics had seen things that his mind would never be able to unsee. Regrets: so many of them. Some of them contained erotic Minibots, now.

Between the cuffs and the curves, if he came out of this situation with some sort of weird fetish? He wasn’t going to be surprised. He’d just blame Whirl.

The ex-Wrecker ahead of him paused at an intersection to check around the corner. His head jerked, optic flaring for half a second in surprise. 

He shook it off a moment later. “Don’t even **look** ,” Whirl warned as the warden came up behind him. “I know you got trouble listening to instructions, but -- “

“I do not,” Fort Max cut him off. Of all people, he was not taking a lecture about issues with authority figures from _this_ mech.

Whirl somehow managed a withering glare before skittering across the intersection. The warden made a face at his back and strode to follow. He caught a flash of color out of the corner of his optic, however, and he took a quick look. Unfortunately, with the virus at work, a quick look was all the indication of interest the infected required. Oops. 

Siren saw him and was immediately calling, “ **Hey! Come on over here! We’ve got room!** ”

Up ahead, the gangly blue Autobot leading today’s tour of the crew’s many sexual positions turned and just _looked_. Fortress Maximus hastily caught up with him. The ex-Wrecker continued looking at him. The bulkier mech shifted, trying not to squirm sheepishly. Whirl’s scuffed antenna slowly laid back in peevish irritation.

“ **Aw, come back! We could use a fourth -- uh, fifth! Sixth? Come back, we’ll take goooood care of you!** ”

There wasn’t much point in playing innocent. Siren was loud enough to rattle their struts. That was one mech onboard that Fort Max could identify by voice alone, no problem.

By now, Whirl’s antenna was pinned all the way back. “I warned you.”

The warden grimaced. Chalk that up to another poor decision. “Shut up.” He’d find a way to blame it on Whirl, later. Somehow.

The rotary mech shrugged. “It’s your mental health,” he tossed back over his shoulder as he started off down the hallway again. “See what I care if you don’t listen.” His voice fell to a mutter the massive tank behind him only heard because Fort Max had increased his pace. As much as he hated to admit it, he really didn’t want to get left behind. Sticking with Whirl was the better choice. This situation was all kinds of wrong. “Was gonna spare you what I’ve been put through, but what the frag, who listens to me anyway. Blah de blah, Whirl the violent, Whirl the ex-Wrecker, Whirl the incredibly handsome who’s saving your blasted **afts** , you **morons**!”

That last part was shouted at the tangle of mechs blocking the intersection up ahead. Fortress Maximus slowed down warily this time, but Whirl didn’t even hesitate. The spindly ex-Wrecker stomped forward and briskly poked at the pile. He seemed to know what he was doing. Under his clinical prodding, limbs separated enough to be distinguishable as actual ‘bots instead of just a moaning mound of spare parts. Fort Max edged up behind Whirl and cautiously peered over his head down at them.

The big green and yellow mech on top towered even when kneeling. When he sat up, Whirl had to crane his neck to look up at him. Fort Max had to angle his head in order to see past the big mech’s bulk. There were two more Autobots pinned between the green mech’s legs, and he seemed intent on taking his time with both of them. The smaller red one was on his front, clawing at the floor and sobbing in huge gulps of air as pleasure ran his systems so hot the air distorted around him. The other mech, larger but just as red, preened under the attention and purred through his speakers.

Whirl deftly avoided the two pinned mechs’ pawing and batted away the largest Autobot’s hands. They seemed to be coaxing him down to join the two the big mech had already collected. “Not interested! What’s your fuel levels?” Bat, bat, push, duck and dodge. Whirl obviously had some experience escaping amorous mechs by now. “Hey! Respond! Fuel levels, now!” 

“Thirte-eee-eee -- ohhh. Oh. Ah…” That was definitely Blaster. The warden recognized that warble of sound as a familiar voice from the ship’s P.A. system. The red Autobot bucked into the orange-red hand that dug in on either side of his Cassette casing. Fingers massaged slowly. Blaster melted. “Oh Primus, oh **yeah**! Oh frag, yeah! Cosmos you got the **touch** , mmmm.”

Cosmos, huh? That would explain why the green Autobot kneeling above the two collected ‘prizes’ was almost Fort Max’s size. Fort Max had him in his _’Welcome to the Lost Light: Please check reality at the airlock!’_ briefing packet. He was listed as a Minibot class orbital platform. He’d dwarf the warden if he transformed.

He certainly seemed to enjoy using his size. “I don’t have the touch until you can’t talk anymore,” Cosmos laughed, optics sparkling merrily as he started massaging down Blaster’s sides. His other hand was giving much the same treatment to the sleek wingpanels on his second lover’s back. The flyer had his hands flat on the floor, now, pushing himself up as much as he could to meet the firm pressure stroking every single sensor Cosmos could find. “Now,” the happy dominant switched his gaze from Blaster to his more desperately whimpering, squirming partner, “be a good mech and **overload** , Powerglide.”

The smallest red Autobot wailed and obeyed.

The jolt of released charge zapped up the cables connecting all three Autobots. Fort Max blinked away an after image from the bright light. Wow. He was vaguely impressed. That was quite an overload. Either Powerglide had been saving himself up, or Cosmos was just that good.

Whirl smacked Cosmos in the arm before the Minibot could recover. “Hand. Hand!” He pressed six cubes into the hand not currently sending Blaster into static-laden sound-clips. The Cassette carrier was incoherent, but also apparently at only 13%. That counted as a medical emergency, and Fort Max was vaguely impressed by Whirl actually adhering to duty in this situation. “Y’know what’d be sexy? If you fed them these. And took two for yourself while you’re at it,” Whirl ordered sternly.

“You know what’d be sexy?” Space-worthy engines rumbled, rattling the floor, and Blaster spasmed as the vibration and intense sound did things to his tuned systems. Cosmos put his hand flat on the Cassette carrier’s chest and let the vibration take him from front and back until the red mech’s mouth opened in a silent scream. Cosmos never looked away from Whirl as he spoke, however. “It’d be sexy if I found out exactly how many tweaks of those cute little guns’n’rotors it takes to get the center of a whirly-bird.”

“Nope, nope, nope!” See Whirl. See Whirl run. Run, Whirl, run.

Whirl skittered back so fast Fortress Maximus had no chance to evade. The warden doubled over as a bad-tempered ball of rotors and unexpectedly sharp elbows took him in the midriff. “Oof!”

That had the unfortunate side effect of redirecting Cosmos’ list of sexy activities from flying blue rotaries to riding tank treads. “Hello, there.” Blaster gave one last desperate jolt, legs kicking underneath Cosmos, and overloaded with an unflattering _blat!_ of nonsense noise. The large spacefarer took the opportunity to curl his now-free hand in a beckoning gesture at Fortress Maximus. “I see you over there. Now come over here. It’s so much more fun over here, I promise.” How could a mech with a face mask leer? Fort Max was being leered at. That was definitely a leer. “Here, there, under me -- we can see it all today.”

O…kay. The warden wasn’t much for being a passive lover, and his interfacing equipment was locked offline, yet still his systems sent a ping of interest.

“Refuel! Now!” Whirl pointed a pincer at the spacefarer. “You do that, and I’ll bring -- uh, slag, hold on.” The ex-Wrecker descended into mutters as he made rapid calculations, rearranging mechs around inside that convoluted head of his. Fortress Maximus was not-hiding behind him as Cosmos visually molested his treads, but that gave him an all-too-good position to overhear things he’d rather not have. “Not Chromedome, ‘cause he’d probably squish Rewind. I’ll never get near Pipes with **you** around. Swerve’s busy and Ambulon will get me if I go back. Like the Pit am I trying to pull Red Alert out of his office; it’s like a fragging sealed box full of sirens and lights and I think he was ‘investigating’ three ‘traitors’ last time I busted down the door. There was a line to get in. I had to cut. Who’s the pointy guy, what’s his name, Perve-ceptor had him for a sniper rifle-rest last I saw, I can bring them both out of the lab at the same time if we -- Atomizer!” 

Name remembered, Whirl straightened and raised his voice again. “You three refuel, and I’ll bring you Atomizer. You can -- you can, uh, I don’t know.” Pincers gestured aimlessly, then made a strange sawing motion through the air. “Use his bow to play him like an instrument or something,” the ex-Wrecker bargained, retreating another step as Cosmos turned the not-leer on him.

The Minibot paused, intrigued. Fortress Maximus shuffled back as he was elbowed again, optics squinting as he tried to remember who Atomizer was. There weren’t that many mechs who used bows, so --

Whirl’s odd sawing motion suddenly clicked, and the mental image registered. The warden choked on thin air.

“Hmm.” Cosmos absently pet the mechs recovering between his knees. “That could be fun. I do like music.” Speakers peeped small sounds as their rims were traced gently. “And I most certainly like to, mmm. Play.”

“Oodles of fun. All you gotta do is stop ‘facing their bolts off long enough to fuel up!” Whirl pointed at Blaster and Powerglide while pushing Fort Max back another step. “He can still reach us,” was hissed under an ex-vent at the larger Autobot behind him, and the warden’s optics widened even further. He raised his cuffed hands up out of arm’s-reach and took two big steps back, and Whirl nearly toppled over backward in a scrambling retreat of his own as Cosmos snatched for his leg. “No! Fuel! Fuel for Atomizer, that’s the deal!”

The green Autobot stopped halfway to his feet and sank back onto his knees, reluctant to leave his gathered prizes. Whirl windmilled his arms and caught his balance using Fort Max’s hip. Blaster shifted and murmured. Cosmos looked down at him and sighed heavily. “Well…”

“It’s probably taking them so long to recover because they’re underfueled,” Fortress Maximus said when the blue rotary mech hanging off his side seemed ready to start screaming in frustration. “Maybe Blaster could,” he couldn’t believe he was suggesting this, but Cosmos was giving him that assessing look that spoke of harems and joining them, “lick it off him?” He nodded at Powerglide, who still hadn’t moved after being knocked out by that overload. 

Cosmos lit up. “Oh, what a marvelous idea! It’s a deal!” Inspired, he looked down at his lovers, and the pulse of arousal he sent down the cables sent both pinned mechs right back into arching and wriggling once more. Big orange-red hands delicately put four of the small cubes down above their heads as Cosmos fed his share of the energon into a fuel intake on his side. “Bla~aster, time for a ga~me…”

“Good job,” Whirl said as he led the warden past Cosmos. Fort Max couldn’t tell if the spindly mech was being sarcastic.

One of his optics twitched. He was so not proud of this moment in his life.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt. 3

**Title:** If You Can’t Stand The Heat  
 **Warnings:** A heat virus is loose on the _Lost Light_ , and thus, here there be heavily implied acts of sexual nature. Don’t read if that’s going to scandalize you.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW, set in the middle of Season 1 of MTMTE.   
**Characters:** Fortress Maximus, Whirl, Tailgate, Cyclonus, Trailbreaker, Pipes, Ultra Magnus, Chromedome, Rewind, Siren, Cosmos, Powerglide, Blaster, Rung, Skids, Perceptor.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** I blame Shibara.

**[* * * * *]**   
**Part Three**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

There came a time in a mech’s life, and it was the best of times. 

No, he lied. It was the worst of times. Specifically, it was the time when he agreed with anything Whirl said.

“This is a bad idea,” Fortress Maximus whispered as he peered around the corner above Whirl’s head.

“Totally.” Whirl skittered off down the corridor. “It’s something nobody with half a brain module would do.”

“I don’t see you turning back.” The insult was hissed half under his breath, because neither was Fort Max. In fact, the former warden hurried after the ex-Wrecker. “Wait up!” Half a brain plus half a brain, and yet they were still doing this. They apparently had the sum total intelligence of a drone between the two of them. 

To his surprise, Whirl actually listened. “Hurry up,” the spindly mech insisted. “Who the slag knows what’s down here? I haven’t been down this way since, uh, well.” He stopped and thought that over. “Huh. Since my last session. That was Day Zero.”

Meaning that nobody with a shred of sanity had been down this way since the virus infected the _Lost Light_. A vague sense of shame crawled down Fort Max’s back, because that really only served to fertilize his imagination. Curiosity would kill someone on board this ship yet, although Steeljaw had looked healthy enough when last seen. 

He tamped down shame at his lack of control by assuring himself that he was, uh, helping Whirl. Whirl, who had been tapped as emergency medical personnel by Ratchet himself. Yeah. That almost worked as an excuse. “You have more energon, right?” 

The question came out somewhat plaintive, but Whirl took it at face value. “Yep.” One claw patted the glass of the rotary mech’s cockpit. “Stocked up on medical-grade before I busted out of the medibay last time.” His sole optic looked sidelong at the larger mech jogging up beside him. “C’mon, how much energy you really think he could have expended? It’s **Rung**. Dunno if he even knows **how** to frag.”

They looked at each other silently, both unwilling to admit just how curious they each were about just that. Because the idea of Rung, psychotherapist and ancient orange mech, getting it on with anyone..?

Investigating was a terrible idea. But there came a time in a mech’s life when curiosity overrode common sense, and this was it.

Technically, they were disobeying orders. Whirl was supposed to drag Fortress Maximus up to Ultra Magnus. Fort Max, still cuffed, had his doubts about the official nature of those orders. He wasn’t objecting overly much to Whirl’s insane detour to collect Perceptor and somehow trade the scientist to Drift in order to -- you know what? Fort Max didn’t have a clue how Whirl’s peculiar brand of logic worked, because he had no idea what was going on in the first place. He just knew that Whirl had a better handle on the situation than he did, and that said everything there was to be said about what was going on.

The universe had gone mad while he’d been locked up. And when he’d sarcastically suggested they visit Rung’s office so maybe they could get the universe some counseling, ex-Wrecker and warden had stopped dead in the corridor as it’d hit them that Rung would be infected, too.

Okay, admittedly, part of Fort Max really wanted to slink into Rung’s office just so he could apologize. Attempt to explain, maybe. Verbally throw himself on the floor and invite the poor noncombatant he’d held hostage to stomp on him in compensation for mangling his hand and being responsible for that whole shot-in-the-head incident. Guilt still ran cold through his fuel lines whenever Rung’s name was said aloud. 

“Rung’s, like, as old as the war. Rung’s older than the war. Rung is pre-war. Rung’s gotta have interfacing equipment that predates everything **but** Rung. Rung can’t be fragging like everybody else. ‘Cause he’s **Rung**.”

He swore Whirl was doing that on purpose. “Fine, that’s what you think. So let’s find out.” Bad idea or not, some things had to be done. Fortress Maximus scowled down at the shorter Autobot and strode off down the corridor toward the office before Whirl could invoke anymore guilt. There may or may not have been a faint snicker from behind him.

Tall as the warden was, Whirl could move it when motivated. The fear of splitting up seemed to be motivation enough, because the rotary mech fell in beside him after loping in his wake for a while. Together, they cautiously rounded the last corner and headed toward Rung’s office.

“It’s quiet.” Whirl glanced back at him, optic glittering suspicion upward. “Too quiet.”

“Not everyone frags loudly,” Fort Max muttered. Even so, reflex had him looking over his own shoulder. It wasn’t paranoia if they really were out to get him. “I can see him being a quiet one.” The difficulty inherent in thinking of one’s own counselor (and victim) in the midst of sexual activity broke his mind a little.

They crept down the corridor. They probably looked six kinds of ridiculous pressed against the wall checking both ways every other step, but they’d been ambushed by overly-amorous Autobots everywhere else. It wouldn’t surprise either of them if virus-crazed mechs started popping out of air vents any minute now.

Whirl reached the door first, but instead of knocking, he cocked his head and held a pincer up. “Wait. Look at this.”

Fort Max took another cautious ook over his shoulder before turning his optics to the clipboard the shorter Autobot took off the door. “What is it?”

“Probably nothing. Lemme read.” Humming slightly, the ex-Wrecker looked through the document on the clipboard.

The humming stopped.

“Uh. Or not.”

He didn’t quite know what to think when Whirl silently held the clipboard out to him. Shell-shocked was not a good look on the mech. “What? What is -- “

Dead-voiced, Whirl shoved it into his chest until he had to take it. “Just read it.” 

Fortress Maximus read it.

It was...certainly an educational read.

“This is a consent form.”

“Uh-huh.” Whirl nodded.

He ran a finger down the list, numbly checking off the acts he’d only ever heard of. “This can’t be real.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It **can’t**.” His finger hesitated over a particularly sordid position. He hadn’t ever heard of _that_. “This one isn’t even physically possible!”

A pincer snagged the clipboard back. “Which one?”

“That one! The one with the legs and the lever and does he even have a pulley? I never saw a pulley on the ceiling, and I must have looked at the whole thing.” He’d spent enough time on that blasted couch trying to evade Rung’s questions, after all. He’d know if there were a pulley on the ceiling. 

Curiosity strangled caution and buried the body. 

Whirl’s antenna laid back, then slowly perked back up. “Pulley’s not hard to install. Hey, no, I get how it’d work. See, if you bend your leg like this -- “

“I can’t bend my leg like that.”

The spindly mech looked from his legs to Fort Max’s. “Well, there’s your problem. Loser.”

Color him skeptical. Backward-bending knees or not, that position seemed improbable. “I don’t believe you.”

Even without a mouth, Whirl could snort at his disbelief. The pincer holding the clipboard went back to balance against the wall, and he used the other to pull the warden close enough to hike one leg up and hook the end of his heel on a tread. “Look, it’s not **hard** , you just need to be more flexible than you hulking slabs of armament are built. Now, mechs like me? We know mobility’s where it’s at -- “

“Don’t put your foot on me, you -- “

“Excuse me?”

Neither of them noticed the polite interruption for a critical minute. “Hold my shoulder! Yeah, see, that’s where the pulley comes in. If you were smaller, you’d need a lever under my aft to boost me up -- “

“No, c’mon, who in their right mind would try this with you?”

“I would.” A relatively small hand plucked the clipboard loose, but Whirl merely used the freed pincer to get a proper grip on Fort Max’s other arm as the bigger mech grunted in frustration. 

“You have too many joints.”

“I’m not the one made of elbows right now.”

“I am not!”

“Pardon me, but can I interrupt? If you lift right there, it’ll help.” Rung smiled as two heads turned toward him.

They looked back to what they were doing. “Thanks,” Fort Max said on automatic as he adjusted his grip, and Whirl yelped as his foot slid. “Huh. You’re right.”

There was a beat of silence as Whirl’s foot found purchase.

It was followed by another one of shocked realization.

Their heads whipped back around.

He was paging through the document, however, and took their stunned staring in stride. “Do you have any questions? I see you haven’t checked any of the boxes.”

Whatever questions they wanted to ask, not even mechs like them could manage to say them out loud. Ex-Wrecker and warden alike gaped over the psychotherapist’s shoulder into his office, and everything they wanted to blurt out got lost in transit between mind and vocalizer. Skids on hands and knees in the center of the office, gagged and tied to a bar neither recalled being there earlier? Smokescreen bent over, hands pressed flat to the wall and nothing visibly holding him there? Sureshot and Blades trembling, expressions agonized as they tamely sat side-by-side on the desk?

Whirl and Fortress Maximus had questions, all right. 

What eventually squeaked out had absolutely nothing to do with the topics they really wanted to discuss. “When’s the last time you refueled?” Whirl asked in a high-pitched voice.

Rung’s smile took its time spreading over his face. Those optic ridges did obscene things, things that shouldn’t have been possible but still had the psychological impact of a hand sliding up Fort Max’s inner thigh. “Recently. I have my own dispenser in here. Everyone’s on a schedule, you see.” He turned the clipboard around and pointed to one of the grids spelling out things better not pictured in any detail. It was under the list of acts that consent had to be given for. “Things like fueling and the like happen when they’re laid out,” his voice sharpened into a whipcrack, “and not a moment before!”

“Gggnk,” Skids whimpered, and overloaded hard.

“Tsk,” Rung chided lightly. “That does set the schedule back. We’ll have to start over.”

Sureshot and Blade made small, soft noises of protest even as their hands obediently went from clenching on top of their knees to folded behind their necks. Someone moaned. It could have been Smokescreen, from the way the mech’s doors shook violently for a moment there, but Whirl was a more likely culprit. A mech didn’t need functioning interfacing equipment to feel something when an authority figure like _this_ said sit up and beg.

A mech didn’t need to be hooked up to anyone else, either. Skids squirmed and shivered, optics locked on the therapist. The smile turned a touch lecherous, and optic ridges twitched. One slim hand rose. It immediately had everyone’s attention. It made a tapping gesture, and every working part in the room outright _stopped_.

No, not a tapping gesture. A spanking one.

The little background noises resumed, in a more urgent chorus. Fingers curled against the wall, behind necks, on the floor. Skids bent forward and whined thinly behind the gag as his knees spread and his back arched down.

“So you’re fine.” Was that Fort Max’s voice? He didn’t recall having that shaky of a voice. “Everyone’s fueled?”

“Of course. I have a duty of care to my...patients.” Rung swept a look over the two mechs outside his office. 

Who suddenly realized just what kind of compromising position they were in. Whirl flailed, and Fort Max crashed against the opposite wall as they pushed apart in one uncoordinated motion.

The slender orange mech shook his head and chuckled softly. “Do you have any other questions?”

Whirl made a muted sound as if he were forcibly stuffing words back into his vocalizer before they escaped. 

Fort Max took his turn squeaking. “Nope!”

The clipboard extended. So many unchecked boxes, so much consent to give. 

Oh, Primus.

“I really want to,” Whirl wheezed, and Fortress Maximus hated himself for agreeing. The two nominally-sane Autobots exchanged a pained look. “I really, really want to.” 

Whirl grabbed the cuffs and took off down the hall, dragging Fort Max after. Or maybe Fort Max was pushing the rotary mech ahead of himself. Because there came a time in a mech’s life...

 

**[* * * * *]**


	4. Pt. 4

**Title:** If You Can’t Stand The Heat  
**Warnings:** A heat virus is loose on the _Lost Light_ , and thus, here there be heavily implied acts of sexual nature. Don’t read if that’s going to scandalize you.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** IDW, set in the middle of Season 1 of MTMTE.  
**Characters:** Fortress Maximus, Whirl, Tailgate, Cyclonus, Trailbreaker, Pipes, Ultra Magnus, Chromedome, Rewind, Siren, Cosmos, Powerglide, Blaster, Rung, Skids, Perceptor.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** I blame Shibara.

**[* * * * *]**  
**Part Four**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

Mouths were a privilege. Whirl resented that fact but acknowledged its immutable nature. Those who had a mouth could have it taken away as a punishment, and everyone who wanted a mouth couldn’t have one. Although technically, Whirl could have a mouth. Ratchet had outright said rebuilding Empurata victims was a possibility now that the war wasn’t draining resources, then followed that up by aggressively ‘suggesting’ Whirl get his head out of his cockpit and sign up.

Yeah, well, Whirl knew enough about his own fragged-up mind to take a pass on the offer. He didn’t know what he’d blame his anger on if he ran out of excuses. C’mon. He might not be a stunning example of a post-war Cybertronian, but at least he was functional. 

Of all the reasons Whirl had tossed out in the last ten minutes of blatant distraction, that one seemed serious enough to actually fit what Fortress Maximus knew about the nutjob. As a result, he avoided treating it seriously. “You mean you don’t want to get your head fixed.” 

Look, mechs didn’t stick their fingers into other people’s tender spots. That was just common courtesy.

“Hey, my head’s all kind of fixed. Topnotch cosmetic surgery, here.” 

Right, he’d almost forgotten. Common courtesy unless that mech was Whirl, in which case he didn’t have fingers anymore and he considered poking his pincers into his own open wounds a point of pride. Fort Max shook his head, exasperated, and dryly said, “Not what I meant and you know it. You don’t want to seek psychiatric care.” 

“What?” Whirl’s voice went a little high pitched a moment before dropping back into his normal register. He pulled his antenna out of the hand fondling it and turned back to the conversation twice as determined to ignore current events. “Frag no. I’m going to be all over those appointments from now on. Care for me, doc, mmhmm, aww yeah, care for me harder.”

Whatever shred of sympathy Fort Max felt fled. Not that he didn’t understand the odd, lusting admiration filling Whirl’s voice, but he didn’t need to start thinking about how he’d be handling his own appointments with Rung from now on. Primus, no. He bent further over the workbench. “Do you **really** want to be thinking about that right now?”

Whirl gasped, pincers twitching a rapid tattoo against the wall he was pinned to. Fort Max’s choice of distraction wasn’t working so well anymore. “Don’t know **what** you’re on about. Will you get a move on?!”

It was exceedingly hard to operate power tools with his hands cuffed, especially since he was attempting to use said power tools to saw through the cuffs. “I’m trying. These aren’t made to disconnect, you know!”

Whirl snorted. Fort Max didn’t know how that was possible without a nose, but there it was nonetheless. “Know that, moron! Yeesh. I might actually know more about those cuffs than you.”

Fortress Maximus, prison warden of Garrus-9, maximum security prison, chose not to argue. It was entirely possible it was true, knowing Whirl. “If you have any advice, I’m listening.” Everything in the room stopped for a split second. Fort Max worked his mouth. Vocal records indicated he’d actually said that sentence aloud. His mouth had betrayed him. “Delete that.”

“Nope! Heard and,” Whirl whined thinly and breathed hard, interrupting himself. His antenna flicked rapidly up and down in reaction. “Witnessed,” he whimpered after too long.

The pause wasn’t mocked. Fort Max pretended it hadn’t existed, allowing Whirl his macho image. The ex-Wrecker deserved to hold onto a smidgeon of pride, under the circumstances. Besides, Fort Max kind of felt a reluctant awe for how well the lanky glitchhead was holding up. Primus knew he didn’t think he’d have done half as well in the mech’s place. He was the one in the cuffs, after all, and defending himself was consequently harder.

Somebody had needed to be sacrificed for the cause. Whirl hadn’t wanted to be the sacrifice. He’d known exactly what was waiting for them in Lab 12. He hadn’t wanted to be the offering to the virus, yet he’d marched in anyway. Perceptor had to be challenged to keep him occupied while Fort Max worked on the cuffs, and, being that he was the loose one, Whirl was the bigger challenge.

They’d come to the conclusion that it was easier to cut a step out of Whirl’s master plan by cutting through the cuffs than hope they could escape Ultra Magnus’ amorous intentions with the cuff keycode. Fortress Maximus had stopped caring if that meant disobeying orders from the ship’s captain sometime around the point he was knee-deep in an orgy, and Whirl seemed relieved they weren’t playing prisoner-escort anymore. That simplified things greatly for both of them. They still had to deliver Atomizer to Cosmos, of course -- Whirl had fourteen cautionary tales about promising mechs in heat things and not delivering them -- but Perceptor had already knocked the poor guy out through one Pit of an overload. How convenient. Frightening, but convenient. 

The scientist-sniper’s feral interest in a new partner had nearly sent Whirl backpedaling the second they opened the door. Blurting out, “I’m immune to all this ‘facing. Why?” had ignited interest into an unstoppable inferno. Perceptor had a vested interest in investigating the cause of Whirl’s supposed lack of interface drive. He’d set out to science the rotary mech’s connector’s online without a second thought.

Leaving Fortress Maximus free to dig through his lab, find a sonic cutter, and sit down to saw off the blasted cuffs. He owed Whirl like he couldn’t believe. Perceptor was _intimidating_ when he was set on fragging a mech.

Hence the attempt at a distracting conversation. An offlined interface drive wouldn’t delay Perceptor for long.

Whirl’s legs kicked at the air, paddling a frantic beat that got him absolutely nowhere. Air whistled out of his overworked fans as he dragged his attention back to their topic. “Also! Also! Having a mouth would make this a lot more awkward! Gaaaah.” 

Fort Max didn’t look up, but he had to nod agreement. “Good point. Very good point. I concede. You win. Keep your ugly lack of face. We’re all better off not having to watch you get your throat intakes inspected.”

The insult didn’t work. Whirl didn’t even notice it. He was too busy making little helpless bleating noises. Perceptor might not have his tongue down his fellow ex-Wrecker’s throat, but he was doing a thorough external evaluation of every nook and cranny. With his _teeth_.

“Your temperature shows a distinct uptick based on physical manipulation of circuit clusters,” the scientist-sniper breathed over a wet patch left by his tongue, and Whirl shuddered against him, “but that is a purely mechanical reaction to tactile input. Your interface drive is indeed offline. However, since your initial statement was phrased in such a way to indicate you feel left out by your lack of interest in interfacing, I believe I’ve found a solution to your problem. Analysis of your behavior suggests prolonged deactivation of interface protocols.” Strong hands accustomed to holding a rifle found similar grips on Whirl’s chest guns. He closed his fingers one at a time, relishing the hum of Whirl’s systems jumping to attention. The gangly legs tossed over his hips locked straight, toes pointed. “Reactivation is a relatively simple procedure. Shall we begin?”

“Maaaaaax?” Whirl sounded a little desperate. Perceptor pumped at guns roughly, and his voice went funny. “How you doing on those cuffs, buddy?”

Fortress Maximus sawed faster.

 

**[* * * * *]**

 


	5. Pt. 5

Whirl and Fortress Maximus Do The Lost Light. (Wherein the crew of the Lost Light has too much of a good time, leaving Whirl and a confused Fortress Maximus to save them.)

 **Title:** If You Can’t Stand The Heat  
**Warnings:** A heat virus is loose on the _Lost Light_ , and thus, here there be heavily implied acts of sexual nature. Don’t read if that’s going to scandalize you.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** IDW, set in the middle of Season 1 of MTMTE.  
**Characters:** Fortress Maximus, Whirl, Perceptor.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** I blame Shibara.

**[* * * * *]**  
**Part Five**  
**[* * * * *]**

“Frag no.”

“No, see, the answer I’m looking for is a yes on the fragging. That’s the point. Yes to fragging.”

Fortress Maximus shifted his burden to the other shoulder, adamantly ignoring how the groping began on that side as well. “You can look all you want. The answer is still no.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s put it this way.” Whirl swung out in front of him and skipped along backward in that odd skittering gait his weird-aft jointed spindly legs gave him. It made Fort Max’s knees ache just watching. “Say I’m the one. I volunteer. I sacrifice myself to the cause. Glorious martyrdom, as if I haven’t been driving myself crazy -- crazier -- helping everyone already -- “

“Don’t dislocate anything patting yourself on the back.”

“I won’t dislocate squat. Double-jointed shoulders,” Whirl said, proudly demonstrating. Fort Max silently appealed to Primus to deflate the ex-Wrecker’s massive ego. 

Also to erase the mental images, because Perceptor had twisted up enough to peer Fort Max’s arm and watch Whirl’s demonstration. “Impressive. Care to show me more? If I mount you from behind using my thighs to keep a grip on your waist, it would free up my hands for other activities once you balance my upper body against yours using your pincers.” Bound hands slid along the edges of one of Fort Max’s treads in illustration of what activities he had in mind.

Whirl stalled out for second, smug self-satisfaction frozen into an instant of imagining that. His sole optic paled. Fort Max winced and shifted Perceptor back to the other shoulder. It didn’t stop his tread from tingling from amped-up sensitivity. The scientist-sniper had been working on tuning him up since he’d been flung over Fort Max’s shoulder upon leaving the lab. It was reaching the point where he’d have to trade with Whirl again.

Atomizer was nice and quiet, hanging over Whirl’s shoulder like an ideal prisoner package should. Admittedly, it was due to being interfaced unconscious by the mech currently over Fort Max’s shoulder. He served as a cautionary sign for why Perceptor’s molesting led down the path of nothing good. 

Aaaand there were fingers in Fort Max’s treads. The warden swallowed hard. “You should be the one he reactivates,” he forced out, ignoring the fingering as best anyone could considering the holes Perceptor had found to explore. “Didn’t you two work together? Wrecker pride. Stick together.”

“I got kicked out!” Funny how Whirl never brought that up to hide behind when Rodimus was looking for volunteers for away missions.

“Ohhh, yes. We **worked** together,” Perceptor purred. He made a professional work relationship sound like carnal sin incarnate, and a fingertip swirled in among gears at the same time. Fort Max stiffened, suddenly biting his bottom lip. Whirl’s antenna laid back in apprehension. “I do believe now is an appropriate time for us to work out any old grudges lingering from that time, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Nope, not happening, no-oh, ha ha, good joke.” Whirl spun on a heel and took off ahead of them. Atomizer bobbed limp over his shoulder, not slowing him down in the slightest.

Unlike Perceptor. Energon flooded Fortress Maximus’ mouth as the metal of his lip gave way. He debated whether switching shoulders would help any longer. “Well, one of us has to do it.” 

“Not it!”

“Dare you.”

“Paint my stabilizers yellow and call me a coward.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be ‘unvincible’?”

“Nuh-uh, Rodders already tried using that on me. I ain’t falling for that twice!”

Fortress Maximus tried to focus on the implication of Whirl falling for it once, but the circuitry running through his entire propulsion system throbbed in long, hot waves. A sweet, building pressure ran around the circumference of his treads. Every time Perceptor fondled the inside of the treads or licked around the wheels, his knees went a little weak. The slagging glitch knew exactly what he was doing, too. Whispering teases of ionized air kept puffing into the gaps of the warden’s armor all down his back as Perceptor mapped out nerve sensor clusters with tongue and breath. Charge rippled across his sensor network in surging pulses.

Without an active interface drive, pushing up toward a tactile overload felt profoundly odd. Pleasurable, but in a shallow surface sort of pressure-valve pop instead of spark-deep systems-wide overload. It was a mechanical release process instead of anything more involved. A certain urgent need clawed at the machine-level the higher the pressure built, however, and it felt…better than it should. 

The pleasure made Fort Max feel incredibly guilty on top of horribly uncomfortable. That was the curse of being an uninfected Autobot in the middle of a ship full of mechs out of their minds with lust.

He stifled a needy whine and strode after Whirl in a hurried rush. “Here, take him,” he said the moment he could, slinging Perceptor off his shoulder to balance on tied feet before him. 

Perceptor _oof_ ed a bit but otherwise gave no protest. In fact, his uncovered optic developed a wicked gleam. Raising his bound wrists, he spread his hands as much as he could and wiggled his fingers. It was a threat as subtle as a cannon to the helm.

Whirl’s antenna laid back again. He gave Perceptor a narrow-optic look of suspicion. “You’re getting off on learning how to wire us up, aren’t you?”

“I do admit to finding some pleasure in dealing out frustration to you. You delight in causing interpersonal problems, yet you don’t find it as enjoyable when the tables are turned on you.” Perceptor smiled. “As Fortress Maximus has noted, we worked together previously, and I am simply returning the favor of previous inconvenience to you.”

His former teammate glared. Couldn’t really argue with that. “ **Fine.** Take him,” he grumbled, shoving his own shoulder-ornament at Fort Max. Then he bent and heaved Perceptor over his shoulder, braced for the immediate grope to his aft. He winced anyway. “Mech’s trigger finger could bend titanium,” he grumbled subvocal, and Fort Max nodded rueful agreement. Perceptor could pinch a flat surface. 

They’d taken him along because it was either him or one of the medics, and Whirl was justifiable wary about venturing back into the medibay when they had someone already on hand (or pincer) to help. The ex-Wrecker had muttered something about ‘locked doors,’ ‘berth restraints,’ and ‘frag-happy medics with overrides.’ Fort Max figured the madness of the universe had finally gotten to him, as he hadn’t so much as questioned the decision. 

The universe had surely gone sideways. Whirl’s logic made sense, and Fortress Maximus was following the ex-Wrecker’s lead. 

So the plan had changed yet again, and thus they were stuck carrying Perceptor around. It was awkward carrying him even without the hands tracing their seams. The scientist-sniper was taller than Whirl and unexpectedly _bendy_. Add in Perceptor’s attempts to persuade one or both of them to let him activate their interface drives, and Primus save them all. He refused to show them how to _deactivate_ interface drives. The scientist-sniper’s sly counter-proposal had been to allow them to watch him _activate_ their offlined equipment. It would provide the needed knowledge by showing the necessary steps, just reversed. He promised it was a relatively simple procedure, one non-technicians like them could copy. 

More importantly to his personal life goals at the moment, showing them how to activate the equipment would provide him an interface partner. Hence their ongoing argument about who would undergo the procedure. 

“Look, okay, like I was saying, just think about it,” Whirl said, turning to jog down the hall. Fort Max set his fans to disperse the heat gathered under his plating as he followed. “So Perve-ceptor here turns me on.” 

“I intend to.” With regrettable timing, Perceptor dragged his fingertips up the back of Whirl’s thighs, grooving the metal, and the rotary mech screeched feedback. Perceptor lifted his head to smile at Fortress Maximus, fingers kneading, and so much for those fans dumping heat. The warden coughed into his fist and decided to do a check of the hall behind them. Whirl swore creatively. Metal clanked. 

By the time Fort Max deemed it safe to return to facing forward, Perceptor was pouting, held sidelong in Whirl’s arms over the rotary mech’s cockpit. The pout quickly vanished into a mischievous smirk. Clever fingers crawled out of sight across blue armor. Fort Max made a conscious effort not to think about where they’d gone.

“Anyway!” Whirl reset his vocalizer. “Imagine what happens if I’m the one brought online. You really want me set loose with an active interface drive after millions of years?” He suddenly sounded thoughtful. “Or just, y’know, in general. With as nutso as everyone else is, who the frag knows what I’ll be like.”

“So far off the deep end you turn up normal?” They both paused mid-step. “Huh. That…”

“Would fit in with Eyebrow’s latest version of therapy, yeah.” Whirl shook his head. “Fix my head by fragging me stupid. Color me tempted.”

“Bring that up sometime when he’s back to rational.”

“He seemed plenty rational.”

“I’m becoming curious as to what form of therapy you’re referring to,” Perceptor announced without looking up from whatever he was doing. “Are your remarks cryptic on purpose to provoke me, or is a complex situation better explained by showing me? I’m not adverse to the latter. I understand there are limitations in describing something outside your current range of experience, since you won’t allow me to aid you in joining us.”

Whirl gave a dismissive grunt as he started forward again. “Whatever happened to you working on the cure? You knew this was a virus. Ratchet recruited me to keep all you nerdbots in working order ‘til you totally fried your brains and started thinking with **other** equipment, if you know what I mean.” The innuendo fell a bit flat, squashed beneath an entire ship full of explicit examples.

Perceptor gave him a cool look for the effort. “While I find the side-effects of the virus to be detrimental to my health, the benefits far outweigh the cost.” He writhed, long and slow, keeping optic-contact the whole time.

The display was wasted on the two of them. Whirl glanced over his shoulder at Fort Max. “You remember calling me crazy for having my interface drive offline? **This** is crazy.”

“I’m beginning to see your point.”

“Exactly.” Whirl shook his head. “Ship’s fragging to death, and everybody thinks it’s the greatest thing since fully automatic.” Even the mechs who _knew_ better. Perceptor knew the virus was killing him through obsessive interfacing, but he was so infected he apparently couldn’t do anything but approve.

Perceptor hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps I am crazy. You should take me to Rang -- “

“Rung,” both patients corrected. They looked at each other in mild confusion.

“Pardon me. You should take me to Rung. He is an esteemed professional in his chosen field, and as a former Wrecker, it is statistically probable that I’m due some **therapy**.” Wow, okay, that was how innuendo was done. Fort Max’s past sessions with Rung felt dirty, all of a sudden, and Whirl looked weirdly stricken. Perceptor smiled. “Shall we?”

“No!” both of them said.

“Just proves it,” Whirl said. He ruffled his armor, snapping the plates apart and back together in sharp clicks. “Either of us get our equipment activated, and bye-bye rescue attempt.”

Fortress Maximus wished the universe would go back to normal. Whirl was making _sense._ He’d already tried being one mech against the _Lost Light_ , which was how the warden had ended up drafted for help. Fort Max couldn’t see it going any better if their positions were reversed. Whirl was hard enough to work with uninfected and therefore -- in a manner of speaking, as measured by one specific interface virus -- sane. Infect him, too, and it would be Fort Max against the entirety of the _Lost Light_. Theoretically, he’d be able to turn off everyone’s interface drive after witnessing Perceptor turn on Whirl’s, but only after Whirl had an active interface drive. 

Huh. Hmm. 

“Urgh.”

“You thought about it, didn’t you.”

“Why am I thinking about you ‘facing. **Why.** ”

“What can I say? I’m hot stuff.” The confidence in his voice was misleading. His knee joints had developed a loose wobble. Fort Max stared as the lanky mech evidently lost his ability to walk a straight line. Whirl slurred a rhetorical whimper of, “Nnnyaaah. Not the guns, why do you always go for the guns?” 

Perceptor smirked over Whirl’s shoulder at Fort Max, who steeled himself for his turn.

Three trade-offs later, and he had to cling to a wall to stop something far more undignified than just a quaver in his voice. By the Pious Pools, did Perceptor _practice_ tormenting mechs to their limits? “Remind me to get your comm. frequency when this is over,” he said when he regained control.

“Why wait? My dear warden, I would be honored to show you a good time right now. I’ll grease your gears right here on the floor. From the sound of you, you’re in dire need of a full lube job. Bend over and assume the position for…maintenance.” The leer in the words almost manifested visibly.

The mute function on his vocalizer was a very handy feature. Fortress Maximus put it to use. Once his queue cleared of a few sounds he preferred not reach air, he reset everything. “I know what you’re trying to do, so cut it out.”

“Oh? Do tell, sweetspark.” Fingers toyed in among his treads, caressing the wheels with _just_ enough pressure on the lugnuts to make Fort Max reach for the mute button again. 

Primus in the Pit, the things he’d put up with since the brig. “You’re deliberately being creepy, fragger,” he definitely didn’t squeak. 

“Why on Cybertron would I use such a transparent ploy on someone as intelligent as you?”

Innocent act plus flattery added to reverse psychology. Wow, Perceptor was piling it on. Not for the first time, Fort Max marveled at what frantic lust could make of reasonable mechs. Perceptor was so desperate for a frag he was reduced to this. What a shame. “You’re trying to creep me out. I know it. I won’t pass you back to Whirl!” he said, determined. He refused to let Perceptor’s perverted creepy act work, no matter how oil-curdling it got. As bad as Fort Max shivered now under Perceptor’s fingering, Whirl was worse off and needed a break. It seemed that Perceptor was taking out some unsettled issues on his former teammate.

Besides, Fort Max _couldn’t_ hand Perceptor off. Whirl was further down the hall cautiously nudging Atomizer and an armful of energon cubes toward Cosmos, Blaster, Powerglide…and Trailbreaker and Pipes, which was why Fort Max had to stay away. The last thing either of them wanted was another screaming panic attack. Or another chase through the halls as an orgy went on the hunt, since moving targets seemed to trigger some mechs’ need to pursue. Working as a team gave Whirl and Fortress Maximus an advantage, but a group this size could bury them in greedy, grabby hands. It was a perfect example of why neither of them could risk activating their interface drives. 

No, not even if Perceptor lied to them about after-effects, although those had been some extremely persuasive lies. They were part of the reason Whirl had all but fled down the corridor to deliver Atomizer to the archer’s new master.

The rotary mech loped back up the corridor after escaping Cosmos’ collecting tendencies. His over-expressive optic looked worried. “Lemme see him,” he said to Fort Max, who frowned but was grateful to dump Perceptor to the floor between them. Whirl squatted next to the sniper-scientist. “Got a question for ya, grab-aft.”

“Is it about grabbing my aft? Because the answer is an enthusiastic yes.”

Whirl’s antenna laid back. “Do not want. **Anyway** , no, it’s about, uhhhh. Communicability.”

That was a disturbingly specific word coming from Whirl. Fortress Maximus scanned the hallway for ambushes before kneeling beside them. “I thought we were already infected, just dormant.”

“We are.”

“You are, but I can fix that.” Perceptor closed his hands around Whirl’s ankle.

Whirl’s optic managed a grimace, but he allowed the contact. “Right, but what about other ships? Would comm. contact from us infect other ships, or is the virus stuck in our ship?”

Perceptor’s hands stilled. An intrigued look spread across his face. “An interesting question. At the rate it spread among the crew, the likelihood of contact with the comm. suite itself is a more significant factor than actual location. Contacting other starships -- or, in fact, communicating with anyone using compatible comm. equipment -- could result in an exponential spread of the virus. How marvelous. A potential pool of interfacing partners expanding throughout the galaxy. What a brilliant idea.”

Fortress Maximus stared at Whirl in horror. “Tell me Blaster didn’t come up with the idea,” he nearly begged. A plague on their entire species spread in his thoughts, infecting through comm. contact and driving everyone it infected to interface until they keeled over dead. Head that infection with a communication specialist, and all Cybertronians were doomed.

“No,” Whirl said. Fort Max slumped in relief. “Brainstorm did. He asked Blaster if the comm. suite was free on his way through to the bridge to use it.”

Perceptor’s optics glowed. “Genius!”

Ex-Wrecker and warden shared a look. Genius wasn’t really the word they were thinking of. Fort Max didn’t know about Whirl, but the words he had in mind involved a few more syllables and could probably peel paint.

Well, so much for the plan.

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
